


your number one fan

by dansunedisco



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Desk Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Happy Ending, Humor, Light Angst, Teacher-Student Relationship, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:27:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22341778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dansunedisco/pseuds/dansunedisco
Summary: It was the oldest cliche in the book.-Or: Sansa and Jon have a one-night stand and oops, he's actually her professor.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 35
Kudos: 268





	your number one fan

**Author's Note:**

> i needed something silly and sexy to cleanse my palate and here is my sorry attempt.
> 
> but yes, this is a **teacher/student** fic so proceed with caution on that front <3
> 
> -
> 
> the much-varied wardrobe of [professor snuuuu](https://jonnsansa.tumblr.com/post/154406985561/janinam-kitsn0w-kit-and-his-brown-bag)

It was the oldest cliche in the book.

Woman, unbeknownst to her, hooks up with a random stranger during a wild moment of emotional crisis… only to later discover said paramour has a deep, embarrassing and impactful future in her life. A would-be employer, or a best friend’s new boyfriend; something salacious for the audience to chew on. Enough for the reveal to be seen coming a mile away, but delicious all the same in its destructive bang. Sansa _loved_ those cliches. She cut her teeth on romance novels, historical and modern and all their ilk, ever since she was a young girl sneaking breezy summer reads off the Stark lakehouse bookshelf, spines so well-worn they cracked open to the good bits on the first try. The laws of rom-coms and meet-cutes were both ridiculous and concrete, and so she should have known: the dark-haired, dark-eyed stranger nursing a dark drink at the end of the bar would be capital “t” Trouble.

Or, more specifically, her professor.

The shock of seeing him ( _her fingers laced through his hair, dragging him closer_ ) standing beside the lectern, clearly unpacking his leather satchel before class was like being pushed into an ice-cold lake after a hot day in the sun. 

_No,_ she thought, _no no no no._ She _needed_ this class. 

Her body and brain froze in the doorway, lungs trying to simultaneously hiss out an exhale and drag in a breath, and she couldn’t decide if the tinny ringing in her ears was from lack of oxygen or alarm bells. “I teach history,” he’d said when she had asked what he did for a living. He looked so young she’d assumed he meant he was teaching five-year-olds at the most.

But her panic was cut short by a gruff cough behind her. Another student wedged their way in, and two things happened very quickly: Sansa sidestepped inside the lecture hall, stumbling over a half-hearted apology, and Jon turned to look her way. Their eyes met. For a heartbeat, she dared to hope he’d forgotten her. Their moment together had been a fleeting one, and while he didn’t _look_ like he jumped in and out of beds, he had tumbled into hers without much protest. But there it was: a flicker of stunned recognition cascading into what Sansa saw was a real-life example of the seven stages of grief contained in a few seconds. Shock, denial, anger, bargaining, depression, testing and then a final, grim acceptance. 

Then, he cocked his head in some conveyance of meaning.

It took her a split-second to catch on that he meant for her to stay.

It made sense. Tucking tail and running away would be strange. Suspicious. The logical choice was to sit in on the session for today, then switch to another professor or drop the class entirely. Her stomach lurched. What was one more year? 

She filtered up to the back rows where some of the other students were already slouched and dozing off in their seats. On any given morning Monday class she might have joined them, but her current circumstances kept her keenly alert yet unable to concentrate as Jon -- _Professor Snow_ written in large, crisp letters on the whiteboard -- introduced himself, the class, and proceeded to march his way through the syllabus. Sansa heard nothing of what he said even as his voice stirred the memory of two months passed; the familiarity of his accent was what had drawn her to him in the first place. A slice of home away from home in the heart of the capital city. She couldn’t remember now if the seat next to his had been open, or if she’d elbowed her way to the bartop, but she had instigated. And he hadn’t turned her away.

She snuck her phone out from her bag and navigated to her text messages, thumbs hovering over the keypad. Girl code stated this situation stood firmly in the emergency category. A bottle of wine, a pillow to scream in, and some friends were _definitely_ the remedy for a “oops, I slept with my professor” moment. 

She bit her lip, toggling through her text messages. Arya was studying abroad. Quick mental math reminded her of the inconvenience that was time zone differences. Mya had recently taken work as a park ranger and was busy felling trees or saving baby foxes somewhere deep in the Vale. Margaery was at a yoga-and-crystals wellness retreat, so she was out, too.

Sansa despaired to note that she hadn’t told anyone else about her hook-up and she _definitely_ didn’t have the strength to repeat the story in lieu of today’s shocking turn.

All she could do was make it through the next half-hour, and figure out the rest later.

* * *

Later came much sooner than she’d like, and in the form of office hours.

Professor Snow had ended his class with a very pointed emphasis that he would be available from 4-5pm that evening, and she hadn’t missed the way he’d seemed to be speaking directly to her over the lectern.

She paced outside his door. The frosted glass panel had his department and named etched in classic gold, and she’d already lifted her fist up to knock twice before twisting away and continuing her internal debate.

Just as she had convinced herself to make a run for it, consequences be damned, the door cracked open.

“I could see you wavering,” Jon explained, and opened the door wider. “Figured I’d step up.”

He wore wire-rimmed glasses, and his curly black hair looked like he’d spent the rest of the day raking his fingers through it -- or just had sex. Because she knew what he looked like post-coitus, and it looked strikingly similar to how he looked now.

She swallowed thickly, and entered. It was more a broom closet than an office, truth be told. She cast about before deciding to sit at the chair across from his desk; a mistake, in hindsight, because he came to sit at the edge of the desk closest to her, arms crossed firmly across his chest. The sleeves of his button-up were rolled up past his elbows, and the sight of his muscled forearms reminded her of how strong he had been; how easily he’d held her up against the wall as he had ground into her.

Her cheeks burned. _Keep your head screwed on, Stark!_ The sex was phenomenal, sure, but who the hell got hot over someone’s arms?

(Somewhere far away, Margaery Tyrell and her crystals quaked).

He sighed, disappointed. “So can I safely assume your name isn’t actually Alayne?”

She wanted to melt into a puddle. No, she wanted to combust. She forgot she’d given him a fake name; had assumed he’d forget her immediately the next day, actually, and he’d proven her right. The morning after she had woken up alone in her apartment, a sliver of watered-down light cutting across the empty side of the bed. “Wow, are you sure you aren’t teaching criminal investigations?” He didn’t even crack a smile, and she shifted awkwardly in her seat. “Yeah, no. It’s--um. Sansa Stark.”

He took a deep breath and exhaled, the fabric of his shirt coming mesmerizingly taut against his chest as he did so.

“Did you know?” he asked.

It took her a moment to understand what he was implying, and a dash of anger lit inside of her like a matchstick. “Do I look like the type of person to _stalk_ my future professor, purposefully sleep with him, and what-- try and blackmail him during the start of term?”

The look he gave her was unwavering. “You came up to me at the bar pretty quickly.”

“Because I thought you were hot!” she burst out. “You were sitting there and my idiot ex-boyfriend had just broken up with me for some country girl named Saffron-- and you seemed sweet and lonely. I didn’t know, I swear it. And I won’t apologize for it because it was an honest mistake!”

Tension seeped out from his shoulders, and he lowered his hands; the tips of his fingers pressed against the top of his cramped mahogany desk, and Sansa’s traitorous brain skipped back to the image of own hands grasping for purchase against her shitty kitchen countertop as he’d taken her from behind. “Alright, okay--”

“I’m not done--” she interrupted, and half-stood; but the edge of her purse caught on the chair’s arm and jerked her gracelessly back into the seat. “Fuck.”

“Miss Stark?”

"Sansa is _fine_ , Professor." She unhooked her purse and stood. It brought her neatly between his knees. The half-amused expression on his face shuttered closed and the biting words she’d meant to unleash on him about his not-so-subtle slut-shaming caught in her throat. The small room felt even smaller all of a sudden, the space between them charged with possibility.

It was impossible to forget how handsome he was. Not-so-tall, dark and mysterious. A dusting of a five o’clock shadow was on his jawline, contrasting against her memory of the full beard she’d met him with. At the time, she thought she couldn’t imagine him any other way, but she found she rather liked his attempt at clean-shaven. It highlighted how intense his gaze could be. She really, really liked how it was turned on to her now.

Her tongue darted out against her bottom lip, and she watched as his eyes traced her. Electricity skipped across her skin, and an inner voice that sounded suspiciously like Margaery told her to throw caution to the wind and go for it.

If she kissed him first or if he kissed her, she would never know; one moment she was thinking about doing it, and the next it was happening; Jon’s strong hands at her waist and hips, dragging her in to completely close the space between them.

She moaned against him, and he marched them backwards, dropping open-mouthed kisses against her throat as he locked his office door and dropped the blinds down across the frosted glass. He pushed her up against the bookshelf, and a concussion-sized tome toppled off, barely missing them. She laughed and he groaned something about expensive books and fragile bindings.

Normally, Sansa Stark cared about the plight of books. But she was not normally making out with the hottest guy she had ever hooked up with when these tragic things happened. So she wound her hand into his tie and pulled him in, lightly nipping at his bottom lip the way she’d made him gasp all those weeks ago. “I can’t believe this is happening,” she murmured, widening her stance so he could fit his leg against her. Her cunt throbbed; she was embarrassingly wet already.

“You need to drop my class,” he said, the low northern burr making her shiver. His fingers inched up her skirt. His thumb found her clit through the soaked fabric of her panties, and gently applied circles made her knees go weak.

She writhed against his ministrations; it wasn’t possible, but she felt like she was deliriously close to orgasm already. “I was planning on it, don’t worry--” She gasped, “--and I swear I didn’t find you on My Hot Professor dot com to try and get an A.”

“I have no doubt you would’ve passed my class with flying colors, with or without _this._ ” He pulled her panties to the side and dipped his fingers into her entrance; he crooked his index finger just so and she felt herself get impossibly wetter, the slippery feeling of her g-spot being stimulated well and good shivering through her like nothing else ever could. “I can tell you’re a quick study.”

“The quickest,” she replied, half-delirious and on the edge. “I have full marks and I intend on graduating top of my-- _Oh!_ ”

He whispered a biting curse against her throat, teeth flashing against the straining tendons in her neck. Her fingers clenched unforgivingly around the tie in her hand, and the thought that she might be choking him didn’t pass until she heard his heavy wheeze.

“Sorry, sorry--” she murmured, but he kissed the apology from her lips. He continued working her as she chased her own pleasure, using him just like he had taught her to do during their one night together.

She was so, _so_ close. It felt like her bones wanted to slide out of her body; but he withdrew suddenly and left her teetering on the balls of her boots. Her eyes popped open to find him already on his knees, greedy hands dragging her panties down her thighs. He stared up at her with glassy eyes and pupils blown wide, and it felt completely normal to throw her leg over his shoulder and watch as he proceeded to eat her out shamelessly. She came a beat later, her heel digging viciously into the meat of his back, his tongue laving at her clit with two fingers deep.

She was barely given a moment to recover before he hitched her up and carried her off, depositing her gently atop his desk in three strides. 

“Can I--?” he asked, and she answered by undoing his belt and unbuttoning his pants. She let him handle the zip, and she didn’t want to ask what a professor was doing with a stash of condoms in his desk, but he handled that, too; and then she was leaning back on her elbows and urging him on, head tipping back as he slid inside of her in burningly slow, measured strokes.

In truth, desk sex was much hotter in theory than in practice; the hard edge of the wood dug into her, and the position lacked the friction she required to get off, but it felt so damn good she knew she could do this with him forever.

“Sansa--” he gasped, and she realized she’d said the words aloud, but there was no time to be embarrassed. He grabbed her ass and pulled her up off the surface of the desk, dragging her against him until he gave two, three more stuttering pumps and froze with a bitten-off groan. He shuddered, and she felt him throb inside of her, and she shivered at the thought of one day forgoing a condom with him. 

He pulled out slowly, and she pushed herself upright on shaky arms.

She righted her skirt and tried to fix her hair while he took care of the condom. He had a small antique mirror on his desktop, scattered between a handful of trinkets and a framed photograph of him and a group of people she did not recognize. As the heat of the moment fully evaporated, the panic that she had fucked her professor _again_ \-- and knowing who he was, this time -- set in.

“Hey.” He smoothed his hand soothingly along her outer thigh, seemingly sensing her quickly fraying nerves.

“Hey.” Her heart thumped wildly in her chest, wondering what the soft look in his eyes meant. Her underwear hung off her ankle, his lips were still shiny and wet, and she was sure she looked well and freshly fucked-- but the moment that passed them now felt tender, charged in an entirely different way. She dropped her arms around his shoulders, feeling weirdly exposed and shy in spite of all that had just transpired. 

He kissed her, then; soft and tender.

“If you don’t believe me when I say this, that’s fine, but-- I thought about you for weeks afterward,” he admitted, drawing back to press their foreheads together. “We had an instant connection, didn’t we? And by the time I realized it, I had already left your apartment and... I couldn’t find my way back. It sounds like a damned stupid excuse, but it’s the truth. I still don’t rightly know how to use the metro system in this fucking city.”

She pressed her lips together, trying and failing to hold back a giggle. “No one in King’s knows how it all works, frankly. But there’s an app. Very helpful.” She took a breath. “And for what it’s worth, I do believe you… because I felt it, too. I liked you a lot. Obviously. I swear I don’t have sex with every professor I meet.”

His eyebrows quirked up, and that self-deprecating smile she liked so much showed itself. “Only the ones on Sexy Professor dot com?”

“Ha _ha._ I’ll have you know you are _not_ on that site, sorry. I definitely would have remembered if you were.”

“Ouch. I didn’t make the cut.”

She gently shoved at his chest. “It’s because you’re a new faculty member, I’m sure. You are _very_ pretty. It's only a matter of time before you join the ranks of Jaime Lannister and Renly Baratheon.”

He kissed her again. “Well, as long as you say so.”

* * *

Professor Snow cut office hours early that day, and Sansa Stark dropped his class and managed to fill the credit elsewhere without ruining her entire ten-year plan. 

In the end, the administrative work it took to first establish the pre-existing relationship and then allow it to proceed was almost not worth the headache, nor the side-eyes and salacious whispers they received for the rest of the term from everyone, students and faculty included. 

While what they were doing wasn’t strictly against the rules, it _was_ frowned on, and not even the happy shroud Jon and Sansa found themselves in protected entirely against it.

But it worked out, and years later at the Snow-Stark wedding, Margaery Tyrell scandalized the family septon by regaling the wedding party on the _true nature_ of how Sansa and Jon met in a way only she could do.

Despite the horrified faces of some of their guests, Sansa and Jon had only smiles for one another and raised their flutes of champagne to toast; for they knew, just as they’d known from the very beginning, that everything would work itself out just as it was supposed to.

And that was very well indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> the title comes from MUNA's Number One Fan, which i listened to on repeat to write this song


End file.
